


Five Things That Never Happened to Boromir of Gondor

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Background Het, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Character Death Fix, Eventual Smut, M/M, Post-Book(s), Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-14
Updated: 2004-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4242066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five very different ends to Boromir's story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dead Under the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Livejournal starting 14 January 2004.

The dead ran out the sweeps and rowed the corsair ships against the strong flow of the Anduin. Aragorn, quite rightfully exhausted, took to rest in the great cabin at the rear of one ship and left the King of the Dead to captain it. Legolas and Gimli were aboard a separate ship and Halabarad a third with the Dúnedain spread between them all. But no one disturbed Aragorn. None except the Dead. 

The door need not have opened to admit the form that entered, the form of one that had once been a Man, but the door did open and then closed behind. The sound alerted Aragorn and he sat up quickly in the captain’s bed, his knife drawn out. It was midnight and no lamps were lit; the only true light in the cabin was that of the moon shining in through the small, high windows, glinting pale upon the Elven blade. He could almost have believed he was alone but for the pale glow by the door and for the chill in his bones. 

“Why have you come?” he asked, sheathing his blade and focusing his gaze upon the dim form by the door. The blade was useless against the Dead; his fingers closed on Andúril’s hilt instead, which lay on the bed at his side, always close. “What news?”

“No news, my lord,” said the form. Its voice was low, little more than a rasping whisper, like stormy winds through trees. Aragorn was chilled.

“Then why have you come?” he asked, drawing Andúril near. 

The dim form moved then, slowly, floating as if mist in the air. It came closer but its shape became no more distinct, but a pale shadow of a man. “I found I had to see you,” it told him. “They told me we would leave, that we had been summoned. But only the Heir of Isildur could summon us.” 

“And I am Isildur’s Heir.” He drew Andúril from its sheath and held its hilt in both his hands, the moonlight glittering on its blade. It almost seemed to draw the light to it, to shimmer in the darkness brighter than the glowing of the Dead. Its brightness there lent a little strength to Aragorn’s heart, strength he found he needed. 

“I know that you are, my brother,” said the form then, more softly and yet more clearly the sound of a Man’s voice, though still as if carried by the wind. The glowing began to fade and move away. “I only had to see you.” 

“Wait!” Aragorn threw back the sheets and put down his sword. He stood barefoot on the cold boards of the ship’s floor and stared at the form, now stopped stock-still by the door. It seemed his blood ran cold. “Who are you? Show yourself.” 

“Has it been so long?” The brightness of the form increased, its image coalesced, and Aragorn’s heart sank within his chest. “Have you forgotten me already?”

“Boromir,” he murmured. 

“The same.” 

The form grew brighter though the light it shed did not spread out to illuminate the cabin, only lit the form itself. The air about it seemed as black as a void, deep and quite as vastly empty as Aragorn then felt. And the form grew closer, closer, until it stood there just by the foot of the bed, glowing and unearthly. Aragorn sank to his knees before it. He could think of nothing else to do.

“Boromir.” 

The face was so familiar and yet still so odd and foreign, a travesty, a mockery of the fairness that he had once known. Had there been flesh it would have been decayed, hanging from the bones he saw lay there beneath. Had the clothing there had substance, it would have hung down ruined and torn. He was dead yet there he was, standing there before him. The sight rent Aragorn’s heart in two, weary as he was. 

“Why are you here, among the Dead?” he asked, leaning heavy on his knees. 

Boromir’s flat, dead eyes were trained upon him. “Because of you,” he said. 

“Me?” 

The form then moved, stepped around the foot of the bed and came still closer, slowly, until it stood there close before him. It seemed he could gaze through that glow, right through to the ship’s timbers. And then, abruptly, it turned, and sat. _He_ sat.

“Aragorn,” he said. “Come sit beside me, as you once did”. 

It seemed his limbs were locked, unwilling to move, but Aragorn set his teeth and rose from the floor. Boromir looked up at him; he sat down at his side. 

“You lay a cursed upon me,” he said. “As Isildur cursed the Men of the Mountain all those years ago, you cursed me on Amon Hen. I do not think you even knew the words had left your lips. But as I lay dying, even then, you cursed me.” 

“I--”

But Boromir raised a hand to silence him, and then went on. “I once said to you that we would see the White City together,” he said. “That one day our paths would lead us there, do you remember? My death made a liar of me and you cursed me for it. So I went to dwell with the Dead under the mountain, and like those men I cannot rest until my oath’s fulfilled.” 

Tears stung hot in Aragorn’s eyes as he turned and stared out through the window, out at the wide river beyond. He had cursed him, then, never to rest. For such a petty thing! It seemed his curse meant so much less than had Isildur’s and yet was no less potent, or less binding. He had not meant this, not for Boromir. 

The touch of Boromir’s hand was as ice on his cheek as the dead man reached to turn his face toward him. Aragorn shivered, and the tears that had threatened then spilled. Boromir smiled most sadly, and he brushed the tears away. They dropped as ice to the floor.

“I do not blame you,” he said, and then it seemed he was himself again, no death there in his countenance, only in the ice of his touch. “You did not mean for this to happen.” 

“No.” 

He drew closer, placed his hands on Aragorn’s shoulders; the cold was almost burning. “I only wanted to see you for this one last time,” he said, and smiled. “Before we return to my city and I am free to go.” 

He brushed back the hair from Aragorn’s face and he looked then into his eyes; Aragorn opened his mouth to speak but Boromir laid his fingertips upon them. The words seemed to vanish beneath. 

“I have missed you,” said Boromir. “I shall miss you still.” 

He kissed him then, a hundred winters in that kiss. And Aragorn moved to hold him but felt only air beneath his palms. He drew back, desolate. 

“I can touch but not be touched.” Boromir gave a breathless sigh. “A price the oathbreakers pay. I am sorry, Aragorn. I--" He broke off and looked away and stood again, unearthly. “I should not have come here. I should leave.” 

“Don’t.” Aragorn stood then also. “Stay.” He reached out his hand and Boromir, hesitantly, took it; the cold was almost numbing but Aragorn felt he did not mind. “I must rest, but do not desire your absence.” 

He sat, and Boromir moved with him; he moved Andúril aside and lay, stretched out upon the bed. He could not touch perhaps but as he closed his eyes he felt Boromir’s arms about him, cold like a blanket of snow, comforting in its chill. His lover’s hands rested at his waist, his hair spilling over his cheek, his mouth pressed to his shoulder. 

He slept that night in the arms of a memory. 

***

He was alone when he woke; it was as he had expected, though not as he had hoped. Still, he had not the time to search him out. The ships drew near the harbour. Battle was upon them. 

They fought hard, till they were aching and torn and the field was red with blood. He stood there then, in the aftermath, and the King of the Dead came down to him. It was over; the Battle of the Pelennor Fields was won. The Dead had fulfilled their oaths, and now they called on him to set them free.

He looked over them, among them, the army of the Dead. Then he spoke the words that would release them. As they went, as his eyes searched, he thought he saw the man for whom he had been searching. A wide smile was there upon his face; he pointed to the City; and as he vanished into the air, Aragorn turned his gaze to look. 

Minas Tirith stood before him, the White City proud though torn. The Tower of Ecthelion overlooked it all, and its banners flew high in the breeze. 

Boromir was home at last.


	2. The Steward of Gondor

Boromir’s sword had no name. It dawned upon him late one night as he lay restless and the others slept; stretched out and warm by the fireside, his left hand closed on the leather at its hilt and it occurred to him. The words formed, oddly clear in his head. _This sword has no name_. 

The thought was jarring, though he could not say why. It should not have mattered to him in the slightest. It was a good sword, after all, and for years it had served him well, since the breaking of his last. For one hot-cheeked moment then he felt like some most traitorous servant, that he had discarded that last sword so readily, but the moment passed. It left him frowning in the half-light, toying with the wrapped leather grip of the sword by his side. He could no longer even look at it. He closed his eyes instead. 

A hand brushed his and even through his leather gloves he felt it; he looked up into Aragorn’s firelit face and blue-grey eyes, darkened by the night and his desire. He stumbled to his feet and allowed himself to be led away – away from the fire, from their companions and from all thoughts of his sword, away into the trees and the dark where Aragorn’s lips met his and fingers tangled in his hair. He gasped, pushed back against a tall, strong tree, and the cool sound of the water of Nen Hithoel ran in sharp counterpoint to the heat of their bodies, of their kiss. 

They did not undress. There was no time and Boromir wondered then if there ever would be time, time for them to take their time. He pulled off his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and pulled Aragorn in hard against him by the collar of his coat. His fingers found his hair, the back of his neck, a shoulder, the curve of his arse as he crushed him in against himself, as their mouths came together with a heat that almost burned. They grasped at each other, tensing, gasping, shivering into completion. They did not care about the mess. They were already dirty. 

They lingered after; it was not far back to the camp but they moved slowly then between the trees. Aragorn’s hand played at the small of Boromir’s back until they parted by the fire. Boromir lay on his cloak on the hard ground and he faced inward that time, as he pulled on his gloves and let his gaze skitter over the sleeping faces that surrounded him. They seemed so peaceful. He was not sure he knew anything of peace by night. 

Aragorn took his place by the fire, coat and cloak pulled in tight around him, his hair falling down across his face as he closed his eyes. Boromir sighed as Aragorn’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. He did not wish to be reminded. Not then. 

The sword was Andúril, Flame of the West, forged from the Blade that was Broken. The man who bore it was the man whose touch he craved, whose taste was in his mouth, and who would be his king one day. He understood that now. 

He drifted into sleep that night with the firelight gleam of Andúril still hot in his eyes. 

***

They woke and ate lightly the following morning; there was some talk, though it was strained and Boromir himself was silent. He was not hungry and he had no wish to speak. 

Legolas and Gimli, and the hobbits shortly after, left the camp to ready the boats. Aragorn sat smoking by Boromir’s side, stretched out resting back against a rock, his eyes cast to the water and his hand again resting there on the hilt of his sword. Boromir watched him. He could not avert his eyes, even when Aragorn turned to him. 

“What is it?” he asked. 

Boromir laid his hand on the sheath of Aragorn’s sword. “You are Isildur’s heir,” he said, and Aragorn frowned at this. 

“You have known that all along.” 

“Known, but never truly understood.” For a moment he smiled, and he took his hand from the sword. “But now I understand.” 

He moved and knelt, and Aragorn sat tall, his legs crossed at the ankle and his sword across his lap. 

“I would swear fealty to you,” said Boromir. “Even now, on my knees before none but the rocks and river. I would swear it on my knees before your throne in the White Tower, with my hand upon my heart.” 

Then he frowned. The look upon his face was of dismay, of heartrending realisation. 

“I cannot go with you,” he said, in one terrible moment of clarity. “And I should never have come.” 

Aragorn grasped him tightly by his shoulders but did not tell him he was wrong. “Go to your city,” he said instead. “My way lies with Frodo a while longer, and yours, I see, lies to the south.” His rough fingers found the base of Boromir’s neck and he brought their foreheads down to rest together. “But I shall see you again,” he murmured, as Boromir’s hands brushed at his cheeks. “In the White City.” 

***

Denethor rode from the gates of the City and met with Théoden of Rohan, there on the battlefield. They died there, side by side, the highest blood of their two countries red on the grass of the Pelennor. The crown of Rohan then passed to Éomer; the stewardship of Gondor passed on to Boromir. And then the King returned. 

First came the coronation; with the crown of Elendil the White Wizard made Aragorn Elessar. Then came the Steward’s oath, when with joy in his heart Boromir knelt before the throne and swore his fealty to his king. Faramir his brother then did the same, and then they rose together, lords of Gondor, Princes of Ithilien. And then came the feasting, for days upon days. 

Soon Elessar was wed, and also Faramir. Their wives were fair and wise, beloved of their people; Queen Arwen and the Lady Éowyn were, so Boromir believed, the only pair yet living worthy of his king and of his brother. But as for Boromir himself, he never married for his heart was no more his own to give, and he would not take a wife he could not love. It was said by the men that he was married to Gondor, and so he was; his counsel was just, and when he rode with the armies his prowess in battle was ever undoubted. 

Years passed. Battles came and passed and under Elessar Gondor again grew strong. Boromir was a fine, true Steward to his King, an uncle to his brother’s sons; he taught them the sword when the time was right, and how to swim in the summer, in the pool off the Anduin not a mile from Osgiliath, where Denethor had taught his sons before. 

Then, when Boromir was a man of sixty-five, grey threading through his long fair hair, Elessar walked down from the Tower and came to his rooms. They stood by the window in silence, and looked out; from there they could see the whole city, its banners high, their people jostling in the streets. It was a good sight to them both. 

Then Elessar, in his black robes, with the seven stars and one white tree, set his hands upon his Steward, pressed his lips hot to his neck. And though it pained Boromir deeply, he moved away. 

“Has it been so long that you no longer desire me?” asked Elessar. 

Boromir smiled and shook his head. “Not so very long,” he said. “But when you put on the king you became a different man. I love you no less now than I did then; the man I once was would have died for the ranger and the steward I am would die for his king. But Aragorn and Elessar are not the same. And I have never changed.” 

He gazed on Elessar, his eyes burning bright; he paused and he swallowed and he turned away to the window. “Go back to your wife, King,” he said. 

***

He watched as his brother’s boys grew into men and then Barahir, grandson of Faramir, was born into the world. When the boy was six years old, Boromir took him to that same pool, and while they splashed and played, he told the boy the story of the War of the Ring, of brave King Elessar and his fair Queen Arwen. 

It was twelve summers later, while Elessar was away to the north and dwelling a while by Lake Evendim once more, that the Steward Boromir passed on. The King and his company rode back south at once, and as Boromir was laid to rest in the great house of the Stewards, Queen Arwen’s head rested upon the shoulder of the king, her husband. She alone saw the tears he shed, but her words could form no consolation. 

It was the Ranger mourned then more than the King.


	3. The Battle of Helm's Deep

“Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country.” Théoden raised his goblet, and so followed all the Hall. “Hail the victorious dead!”

“Hail!”

_The victorious dead,_ thought Aragorn, and then, unbidden, _Boromir._ He hesitated then a moment, then drank of his ale in remembrance of those that had passed. He did so with a heavy heart and cheerless, for Boromir had died far from his home, for a country and a king not his own. To have come so very far only to fall in battle there in Rohan – there was honour in his death, Aragorn knew that well, but it grieved him that they would not go to see their home together. 

The night wore on and the drink flowed freely; the sombre air of the Golden Hall turned to that of festival, though Aragorn felt himself outside it. He saw Legolas and Gimli, drinks in hand, sitting together with the king’s captain Gamling; he wondered if they spoke of Haldir and of Háma, their friends fallen at Helm’s Deep. He saw Pippin and Merry go up on the tables, dancing and in rather fine voice; it brought a small smile to his face to see them so happy, but for his own part he could not forget. 

He sat apart from the rest, away in the shadows, and watched through the hazy, smoke-filled air. He set down his mug; he tugged at the buckles of the vambraces at his wrists. Though he knew he would not remove them, they felt somehow wrong. He had taken them from Boromir as he lay dead by the Deeping Wall. Their worn leather still retained the form of their dead owner’s arms. It would take a time to wear away.

“You loved him.” Éowyn’s voice was soft as she came to sit beside him. Her thigh brushed his beneath the table so was so close by, and he blinked back tears. 

He nodded and he did not turn to her. To any other he should have denied it, but Éowyn had always known. “Dearly,” he said. “As did you.” 

“Yes, I did,” she said, and looked away, out into the noisy throng. “He was brave and strong. Yes. Yes, I did.” 

Then she looked up and caught his gaze; she lifted her goblet to her lips and drank, then held it out for Aragorn to take. 

“Westu, Aragorn, hál,” she said, tears shining in her eyes. 

He took the cup and drank from it. “Be thou well,” he said in his reply, and passed her back the cup. 

The small smile that crossed her face was brief, and then she walked away. 

***

He drank more than he knew he should but no more than the others; he did not drink then to forget, as they did, but rather to remember. He drowned away his sorrow until only memory remained – the memory of touches, glances, smiles and of their passion, stolen moments south of Rivendell and lazy days in Lórien. He saw the arrow pierce his lover’s shoulder, then his own blade deep in the creature’s neck before its work could be completed. He saw Boromir with his heart torn when at last they came to Edoras. He saw Éowyn. 

Boromir had never said a word to him about her, how they had met in a break from his journey to Rivendell, and yet Aragorn had known what was between them; he knew it from the look that had been in their eyes. Boromir had never asked leave of Aragorn to go to her, but Aragorn still gave it. He had longed to tell him no, he must not go, to stay there in his bed and in his arms instead. But in his heart he had always known that once he was made king he would take Arwen as his queen, and a wife he knew deserved fidelity. Éowyn would have loved Boromir for all her life. And more, she would have never left his side. 

But now Boromir was dead. They had both lost him. He was gone. 

He wiped his eyes and drained his ale and set the mug down on the table. There was still dancing and singing in the Golden Hall and Aragorn felt out of place, one sombre face to mar the gaiety. Then his eyes swept the room and they chanced upon Éowyn; her back was to a column and her face was in her hands. He stood and he went to her. He knew she should not be alone. 

“My lady,” he said softly, as he came up to her side. Hurriedly she wiped her eyes. Then she saw that it was Aragorn and fresh tears spilled. 

“I should not cry,” she said, her voice thick and broken as her hands fisted in the fabric of her skirt. “He is gone to the halls of his fathers. I should be happy for him. I should not cry.” 

“But he is gone from you.” Aragorn stepped forward slowly, and reached up to brush the tears from her face. “You are right to grieve now, for a time, for yourself if not for him.” 

She held his gaze then for a moment, then she sobbed; her whole body shifted with it, she shook, and Aragorn gathered her quickly in his arms. He held her tight and she held him, her face buried in his shoulder as she cried. He softly stroked her hair, blinking back the tears at his own eyes. He held her, till her breathing slowed, then he stepped back and cupped her face there in his hands. 

She smiled softly, her hands pressed lightly to his chest as his callused thumbs brushed at her cheeks. And then her fair face went solemn, and she grasped at his shirt with her hands. 

“I do not wish to be alone tonight,” she said. 

He frowned. He almost spoke but the touch of her fingertips on his lips kept him in silence. 

“Just for tonight,” she said, her light eyes full of tears. “Please, come with me.” 

She tugged at his shirt. He resisted for a moment, his head swimming with the drink and grief. Then he let himself be led, his hand in hers. Amid the merriment, they slipped away unnoticed. 

***

They lay together then that night, behind the closed door of Éowyn’s chamber. There was no hesitance, there was no fumbling of the unaccustomed; it was as if they knew each other through all that they had shared. There would be no regret. They resolved that they would never speak of what had happened. 

His fingertips brushed at her bare breasts and she moaned with her eyes open. Her pale skin was soft beneath his rough hands, her cheeks flushed, her legs spread wide; he buried himself inside her, deeply, and they rocked together with their fingers laced and gazes locked. She was so fair, his beloved’s lover. She would have made Boromir so very happy. He would have had her fight by his side and she would have loved him for it. 

He lay there with her after, his arms about her, his fingers toying with her hair until she slept. And then he left her bed; he dressed quickly then he left the room. He met Legolas outside the Hall. He did not ask where he had been. Perhaps he knew, but he did not ask. 

***

They left soon after and Éowyn went too, as Aragorn had known she would. It came as no surprise when he saw her there in Gondor and he learned that she had gone to battle as a man. It brought a smile to his lips to think of her fighting and free, courageous still in the face of the Nazgûl’s lord. A shield-maiden of Rohan she was then, truly. 

The news of her betrothal came as no surprise to him, either; he had met Denethor’s son Faramir and seen in him the likeness of his brother. He was a noble man, and brave, and Aragorn felt that he was pleased for both of them. It gave him great pleasure to see them wed. 

The surprise came finally when he heard Éowyn was with child; it was his own wife, his queen, that told him of it and he did his best to hide his chill. Then later he went to her, while he knew Faramir was still engaged elsewhere. He only had to see her face to know her mind. 

“The child is not your husband’s,” he said then. She shook her head. He took her hand and kissed it, then she brought his to her belly. 

His eyes grew wide. “Not mine!” he said, and then she smiled. 

“My husband knows,” she told him. “And though the child inside me is his brother’s, he will love it as his own.” 

“As will I.” 

Tears stung then at his eyes; she rose and held him close. 

“Thank you,” he said. She nodded. She understood. There was more of Boromir survived than just a memory. 

***

The child was born later in that year. It was a boy; he was born in winter, and they named him Estel.


	4. The Return of the King

Boromir stood by King Théoden on the high walls of Helm’s Deep. Below them lay the Deeping Coomb where had fallen Háma, Captain of the King’s guard. Below them lay the gates of the Hornburg, where had fallen Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Boromir stood by Théoden with Andúril in his hands, and he wept. The heir to the throne of Gondor was dead. 

***

The War of the Ring was hard fought and hard won; there were many casualties, not least including Théoden of Rohan and Denethor of Gondor. More were lost than could be counted but in the very end it was the armies of the Free Peoples that prevailed, and those few left alive from the host that had ridden from Gondor to the Morannon returned to their homes as heroes. 

Boromir rode with Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Éomer of Rohan. Imrahil, the Prince, was a high and noble man who had fought so very bravely for his country, and Éomer, perhaps then Boromir’s closest friend in all the lands, was to be King of Rohan. Boromir himself would be made Steward; there would be no coronation as would make Éomer Rohan’s king, but dressed in the livery of the Tower and under his fathers’ white banners, Boromir would receive the rod of his office and the title to which he was born. He would rule Gondor. 

Faramir, his brother, wed the Lady Éowyn soon after. Boromir was pleased for them but would not take a wife himself, though many would have had him – even Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imrahil, was offered to him. She was beautiful and most high-born; she would give him sons, and smile, and would not care at all should he not love her as he ought. But still he took no wife, and he rode to war instead. He brought their country many victories and praise rained down upon him. His men and his people loved him dear. He was the leader that his father never had been, and Gondor again grew strong. 

Then something happened that had not been foreseen. 

Returning from another battle, a war that he had ridden to with Éomer, and fought, and won, he was sought out by his brother. Faramir had remained behind and had not fought; this was not through any cowardice but rather it was that he ruled Gondor in his brother’s absence and his wife Éowyn was with child, their first. Still, Boromir’s first nephew was not the topic of which Faramir wished to speak. 

“The people would make you king, brother,” he said as they sat together, as Boromir began to clean his sword. He stopped, his hand still on the blade. “The line of the kings is broken. They would make it anew.”

For one long moment Boromir neither moved nor spoke. He sat still as stone in his seat and gazed down at the sword that he held, at the figures etched there that he had never understood, at the blade that had seen him through so many battles. It was Aragorn’s sword, and Isildur’s before. And then he looked down the hall at all the faces of the kings, the statues that lined the walls with their blank eyes and noble brows. There was one, the last, upon whom his eyes rested longest. At last, he shook his head. 

“No,” he said, and his voice was firm. “There will be no return of the king. The throne of Gondor shall sit empty till the ending of all things; there is no man left alive can fill it.” 

There was such conviction in his voice that Faramir could not speak. He was silent then, and spoke of it no more. 

***

Sometimes in the night he felt the sword owned him and not that he owned it. He was no king, nor could he be; he was not Aragorn. The idea that he should be thus elevated, that Gondor should see a king once more, had horrified him; Isildur’s heir was gone and no other could ever claim the throne. They had offered him the crown and he knew that once, perhaps, he would have seized it with both hands. No longer.

He lay awake in bed that night and found no rest. In the morning he sent out a rider – he sent word to Rohan and to Éomer. The King was to return to Gondor then, in death; in Minas Tirith they would bury what was left, the bones of Aragorn, King Elessar. Then they would speak of kings no more. 

He went then to the Tower Hall and he stood by the new-hewn statue there, a commission of his own. He bowed his head and could not look into the blank stone eyes. For all his great courage, he dare not. 

“You will be missed,” he said, softly though even such softness echoed in the Tower Hall and came back empty to his ears. 

His eyes strayed; they crept slowly upwards over Aragorn’s form, familiar though attired as befitted the king, to the sword captured there in stone at his side. Boromir’s hand went to the hilt of the sword at his waist, lingered there a moment, then drew it out. 

“You lent me this awhile,” he said, “and I have made use of it. I return it to you now.” 

With a heavy heart, he placed the sword across Aragorn’s lap; his fingertips traced the engraved blade, the sun and moon, the runes, then his hands dropped down to his sides. And he said goodbye to Andúril that had borne him through so very much bloodshed. It was not his own to keep.

***

Three weeks passed in preparation, then it was done; Aragorn rested in the House of the Kings. His body was brought from its rest at Helm’s Deep by a party of Riders from Rohan, Éomer King himself amongst those that came with the bones. Perhaps Gondor, perhaps the White City, did not understand the ritual and solemnity that surrounded the event, never having known the rule of a king or the man that Aragorn had been, but they understood their Steward felt his loss acutely. At his command, at the moment the party entered Rath Dínen, the whole city fell to silence. 

He wished to speak great words to him to bid him on his way, but no such words would come; instead Boromir placed beside him in the coffin the ring of Barahir, an heirloom of the king. The star of Elendil and the sceptre of Annúminas were brought down from the North and placed there with him also. It was Arwen that brought them, with the banner she had made, and she wept then freely as they sealed the tomb. There were creases at her eyes now; though still fair, she had diminished. Boromir laid his arm around her shoulders and she seemed grateful to him for it; when he thought of what she had lost, it seemed it was a wonder she could even stand at all.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lady,” he said softly, as she dried her eyes. 

She smiled and turned her gaze upon him. Despite it all, she was still captivating; he thought of asking her to stay and marry him, the poor now-mortal Lady Arwen, now that she had lost her love. She may have accepted and dwelt there with him, in the city, in the country where she should have been Queen. But in the end he did not ask; it would have been cold comfort to them both, but a poor consolation for the loss of the man they both still mourned. 

“It is not my loss but that of all of us,” she told him, her voice low. “It is Gondor’s loss, and Arnor’s, and it is yours.” 

They walked together after, and they talked of the man they had known. Arwen told him the story of their meeting, tears shining in her eyes, and Boromir told the tale of his death in return. He did not spare her the detail. He told her Aragorn had died to save his life. 

When he closed his eyes he could see it; the uruks had him, and he knew he could not survive. Then Aragorn had sprung in as if from the very air, his sword in hand, with a mighty cry – they had fought together side by side, and when the uruk made to strike as Boromir’s sword was caught in the chest of another, Aragorn had stepped in. The blade pierced his chest and he cried out loud and sank to his knees. Boromir slew the uruk, pulled Aragorn along with him into the Hornburg.

“Take my place,” Aragorn had said. “I pass it to you. Win this war.” 

And as he passed, the light fading from his eyes, he had pressed the hilt of his sword into Boromir’s hand. Boromir gripped it tightly and with his other hand he had brushed back the hair from Aragorn’s forehead. Then he bent in close to kiss him goodbye. 

“I wish I could have died instead of him.”

The words shook him then, and Arwen also, by the simple truth that had he then the choice, Boromir would give his life that Aragorn might live. He would have done so gladly. 

“You should not blame yourself,” said Arwen, even as her tears fell. “He made his choice, as I made mine.” 

Boromir leant forward, across the table at which they sat, and took her hands in his. The gesture felt quite awkward to him and yet right, and the contact seemed to comfort her. He wished there were more that he could do. He wished that he could bring him back, for her if not himself. She deserved so much more than to die alone while her people sailed into the West. She deserved so much.

“He did not talk of you often,” he said, in a low voice. She looked up at him as though her heart were breaking. “But one night he did tell me that he loved you.” 

She smiled softly. “And you tell me this night that he loved _you_ ,” she said. 

His stomach turned sickly. “But I…”

She shook her head, and she gripped his hands tightly in hers as he tried to move away. “You need no words to tell me this,” she said. “I do not blame you. I think perhaps there was love enough in him for both of us.” 

It was strange to hear those words, _that_ word; what had been between them stayed unnamed, if repeatedly acknowledged. Glances, touches, stolen moments… Neither man had dared to name it, though Arwen did so easily. Perhaps it eased her grief to know that it was shared. 

“You are a good man, Boromir,” she told him. “My father says that Men are weak, but I see strength in you.” She paused. “Your people would make you king, I hear.” 

“They would,” he said, and nodded. “I have refused.” 

“They will ask again. Next time, do not refuse.” He opened his mouth to speak but something in her face then made him stop, something mighty. In that moment, she was truly her father’s daughter. 

“If Gondor cannot have him, then let them have you. His line is ended; there is no king left for whom your house can keep the throne. Boromir, for centuries the Stewards have been kings in all but name; take this last step now. Show your strength to your people. Be the leader Gondor needs.” Her eyes flickered to the statue at the end of the hall, and then she smiled. “Rule in his stead, and in his memory.” 

He had no words with which to reply, so he stayed silent. She let go his hands and rose; she bent and kissed his forehead, and then she left that place. He remained alone.

The following morning he went to her, and he asked her to stay. He knew that she would not – ten days later she retired to the woods of Lothlórien, and they never spoke again. 

***

Aragorn had seldom talked of Arwen but he did say once that what he felt for her, his love, was not a flame of passion burning but a while light ever constant, a backdrop at all moments to his life. He had loved her from his youth and he would love her always, the light of his love never waning. But in his speech and in his voice there was an implication, that despite that light a flame burned in him, and that flame was for Boromir. Boromir’s great hope had been that this flame should never fail. Aragorn himself burned out before it could.

A backdrop at all moments… So Boromir swore Aragorn would be to him, his love, his conscience and his guide. He swore it by the Valar, and he meant every word. And then his brother came for him.

“All my life I had prepared for this,” he said, as Faramir fussed then at his cloak, straightened his new-forged sword at his side, smoothed the wrinkles from his fine black tunic. “I longed for this, and now it comes to it I find that I would gladly set it all aside.” He tilted up Faramir’s chin, and smiled a small, sad smile. “I fear that I was never meant for this, little brother.” 

“You still think that this is wrong, though your people want it, though it is what’s best.” 

Boromir nodded sharply. “ _He_ should have been king. But for me, he would have been.” 

“Arwen told you he would want this.” 

“Perhaps he would.” 

“Then come, brother. They are waiting.” 

Before the doors of the Tower stood the White Wizard. Gimli held the crown on a cushion and before the crowd that had assembled there, Gandalf set the crown on Boromir’s brow. It was not as heavy as he had thought.

He turned then to his brother, Lady Éowyn at his side with their son in her arms. They smiled at him yet he felt no warmth in him from it. The people bowed to him as he walked down the line; he felt awkward, he felt false – as he saw Éomer with his own crown and they clasped arms, he felt worse still. He hid it well, but he still felt it. And then he went inside. 

There stood the throne, and the Steward’s chair that he had occupied below it. He ushered Faramir forward, to take that seat. Then he went forward himself. 

With his friends behind him, he climbed the steps. He trembled as he went, and almost fell, then there he was. He turned and he looked down. His hands were shaking; there he was now, gone higher than his father, gone where Aragorn could not. He took one last deep breath, and then he took the throne. 

It was done. His brother smiled at him. Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli – they all bowed. Éowyn stood by with his brother’s son; Boromir had not and would never marry, and he knew that boy one day would be king. Faramir deserved that. He was the noblest of them all, the best, and his sons would be great kings of men. 

His eyes fell upon the statues, and somehow then they seemed much less imposing. They were with him; Elendil, Isildur, Elessar - they would be his guides. He smiled then, softly. 

Perhaps he did not feel he was the rightful king, but he would be just. He hoped that this would be enough.


	5. The Plains of Rohan

Their swords clattered loud and clanged, ringing with the obvious chime of well-wrought blade on blade. It was then early evening and the setting sun burned brightly in the good steel of their arms, in their hair and in their eyes. It turned the stream that ran there in the meadow where they fought to a burnished golden ribbon beneath the copper sky. They were in the plains of Rohan, far from home, and were at play. 

Crinkles came at Boromir’s light eyes when he smiled, and he smiled often. He knew how Aragorn’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and that was often too. They both fought hard though it was just a game and who won it did not matter, their bodies aching from exertion and strained with the well-known weight swords. They fought in the meadow till their strength had waned and Boromir then threw himself forward, a wicked grin upon his face as he struck against his target; he caught Aragorn there about his waist and sent them both sprawling, laughing, to the ground. 

“Do you yield?” said Boromir, as he knelt there in the grass astride Aragorn’s strong thighs. Their swords lay abandoned and his hands then grasped loosely, lightly, at Aragorn’s throat, felt the pulse there, strong, felt his breath. 

“I yield,” said Aragorn, with eyes that darkened as his smile began to soften down to something else entirely. Boromir found himself pleased by this, as he often had been down the years.

They were then lately back from some fresh new war, in victory, where Kings and Steward had fought side by side under the old Oath of Éorl. They had been there returned to Rohan but a week, lodged at Edoras in rooms given them by the king, near him in his Golden Hall. Éomer had told them should they wish to take up arms and practice they would be most welcome there to do so, with his captains or himself; Boromir knew both he and his king appreciated Éomer’s attentions but they preferred the quiet of this secluded meadow there just outside the city. Éomer took no offence in this; he understood that there they could be undisturbed. They returned there often.

And undisturbed they were, completely, save perhaps for birds singing high up in the trees. There was no one to see as Boromir plucked at the buttons of Aragorn’s shirt, as he brushed it aside and Aragorn rose up out of it, as he lay back then with his bare shoulders to the grass at the foot of the old apple tree. Boromir smiled and lowered his head over Aragorn’s chest, trailing up and up to the place there under his jaw where he sucked, where he grazed with his teeth as he had done so many times before. 

Aragorn’s fingers caught tight in Boromir’s hair, eased up his head until their gazes met. Boromir knew the thought in Aragorn’s eyes without him saying the words aloud; he sat up and rectified this situation soundly, pulling away his shirt, smiling broadly all the while in a way that Aragorn was far from shy to answer. His shirt was a fine thing if a trifle gaudy, given him by Éomer’s lovely wife Lothíriel, green and red with wide sleeves that were by far too long; Aragorn had said it quite reminded him of Théoden’s tent those many years ago back at Dunharrow, done up for him in clothing form. Boromir pulled it off and away over his head, shaking out his hair as Aragorn chuckled. He was not reluctant to discard it. 

Then Aragorn’s hands spread over Boromir’s chest, sweeping down over the trail of fair hair there that vanished beneath the bright buckle of his belt as Boromir watched him. He glanced up into Boromir’s eyes just for a moment and then toyed with that buckle, opening it slowly as Boromir let him do it, then fingers trailed over the laces fastening his trousers. Boromir’s knew his arousal was then quite apparent, as was Aragorn’s own. He tugged the laces open.

Boromir’s fingers curled light around his own erection as he sat there, Aragorn beneath him. He stroked it once, twice, let his thumb circle lazily, spreading small drops of glistening moisture that had gathered there. Aragorn watched avidly, his own erection hardening still further within its still frustrating confines, as Boromir watched him watching. Aragorn sat up then a little, leaning back against his hands spread in the grass, so that the head of Boromir’s cock pressed lightly at his navel.

They could perhaps have been seen there but that notion seemed to Boromir so very insignificant when few in all of Rohan knew their faces. In Gondor it was a different matter; they must hide behind their walls and doors, illicit, careful, rough hands and stolen kisses where Aragorn was Elessar and his face so very often serious beneath the crown. Boromir traced the wrinkles spread there at the corner of Aragorn’s eyes from kingship just as well as age then kissed him there, mouth pressed in hot. Ten years then since his coronation and familiarity had never dimmed this thing between them; Aragorn pulled him in and kissed him then, with all the heat and passion of the sun that set above them. One hand twined tight in Boromir’s long hair. It stole away their breath in that familiar way of which Boromir once swore he’d never tire, and hadn’t. Then he pulled back. 

“I want--” he said, his voice thick, desiring, straining tight as he looked down dark at the man who was his king. But Aragorn just nodded. There was no need then to complete his thought and no trace then of the king, and he was grateful. It was easy to be carefree in a country not their own.

They could have removed what was left between them, lain in the grass together, skin on skin. They had, more than once, in groves in woods where their swords lay close, but then Boromir moved and both men stretched out each upon his side half-clothed beneath the tree. Boromir’s palm skirted the long line of Aragorn’s spine, skin warm beneath his hand, as Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder. Boromir tugged his own trousers down over his thighs; Aragorn shuffled against the grass to do with his as Boromir had done. They didn’t need to be naked, just enough that Boromir’s length fit up snug against Aragorn’s backside when he shifted closer, close enough that they could move together. 

They made use of the small phial of oil there in Boromir’s knapsack, Aragorn leaning up and glancing back to watch quite darkly as Boromir slicked himself behind him. They knew each other well; Boromir knew that a few moments teasing there between his cheeks with the blunt tip of his slick cock and Aragorn would be more than ready for what would come thereafter. They had been here so very many times before. They would be again so many more.

He pressed his mouth to the warm juncture of Aragorn’s bare neck as he pushed inside him, as he then moved inside him. One arm went in about Aragorn’s waist, still slim from exercise despite their now advancing years, spread low over his belly as they began to move together, pressed close. Stubble rasped on stubble as Aragorn turned his head just a fraction, as he reached back to pull Boromir into a kiss that was too practiced to be awkward to them. He was accustomed to the feel of Aragorn’s hands, his beard, his body, in ways that only served to drive him further, hands on sweat-slicked skin.

Aragorn bucked back against him, one hand slipping down, moving down to his own hardness as Boromir shifted in him and they kissed, hard, breathless, needy. Boromir thrust harder, deeper, till they were moaning loud and shivering, shuddering into completion. 

It didn’t take them long. It didn’t need to; this was not the first time and Boromir knew that it would not be the last. 

***

For some moments after the ending they lay in silence, breathing deep side by side there on the grass. Their slick skin glowed in the failing sunlight, beneath the perfect blossom of the apple tree. But the day was quickly turning into night and the air was growing colder; soon they had to dress themselves again, with hands and gazes lingering there at one other’s clothes and clasps, before they sat back down with shoulders pressed together. They drew their cloaks around them, drew in close, warm and familiar. 

Aragorn tucked his long dark hair behind his ears and gazed back at the banners of the city. Boromir’s fair hair was greying at his temples, he knew; the two men looked the same age then, despite the true difference stretching out between them. It hurt that Aragorn would by far outlive him, but he pushed that thought then from his mind. It had no place there. Outside of Gondor they held themselves free of such cares. 

“Do you remember Amon Hen?” he asked, turning then to face him as a new thought struck. 

Aragorn’s rough hand went up to trace the place that the scar lay at Boromir’s shoulder, under the cloth of his clothes; it was one of many that littered his body and he knew Aragorn knew them all, but it was always the scar of the uruk-hai arrow that seemed to chill him most. 

“Yes, I do,” he said. “You might have died.” 

“And so I might have.” 

He brushed his hand slowly over Aragorn’s covered collarbone, up over the curve of his shoulder to catch at the back of his neck. He kissed him quickly, softly, then drew back. 

“You told me that day I had to live.” 

“I did.” 

Boromir smiled, and drew him close. “And this is what I lived for,” he said.


End file.
